


MLG Pro

by BladedFeather



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Attempt at Humor, Clint and Natasha medling, Crack, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Gaming, Literally the gamer AU no one asked for or wanted, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Steve and Bucky only being assholes, gratuitous gaming lingo, nerds, to each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BladedFeather/pseuds/BladedFeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Explosions rocked the ground, and somewhere to his left there was a bright flash followed by deafening noise, and Steve could barely hold in his groan of irritation. </p>
<p>That was fucking playing dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Camping

**Author's Note:**

> Picture this: It's 2:00 in the morning. I'm lamenting that Agents Of Shield doesn't return until **MARCH**.  
>  I've also been playing Fallout 4 for six hours. Straight.  
> Then, suddenly.  
> I'm hit with an inexplicable wave of nostalgia for Modern Warfare 2 so strong this happened.
> 
> Rating will probably be upped in the future. Also gamers in my experience have potty mouths.  
> So. Whoops?
> 
> **EDIT:** Due to [ room106's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/room106) awesome advice there's a glossary of sorts down at the bottom for some of the ~gaming terms.

Explosions rocked the ground, and somewhere to his left there was a bright flash followed by deafening noise and Steve could barely hold in his groan of irritation. That was fucking playing dirty.

Jumping from a window, Steve surveyed the battlefield, managing to take down an idiot holding a shotgun mid-fall with an effortless head shot. The shell cleared the chamber of his Intervention right as his boots hit the ground.

There was a reason Steve was one of (if not the best) quickscoper in their little clan, affectionately titled SHIELD. (Unfortunately, clan tags made that impossible, so to accommodate the four-character limit it was cut down to SHD.) That reason was his ability to pull off a head shot from basically any distance. Only being upstaged by Clint's uncanny talent to do that _and_ do it after spinning in a complete circle or jumping off a roof across the map. 

The long and short of it was that SHD were fairly well known (See: Feared) when it came to Modern Warfare 2. Of course their arrival in a match never caused the uproar that say, a member of Optic (a basically legendary sniping clan) would, but they did get a few murmurs of "Oh Fuck" and the occasional person who straight up left the game after complaining about snipers and "How the game was _supposed_ to be played." 

Unfortunately the rest of the clan was busy and that left Steve playing by himself at four in the morning.

Not that this was usual, honestly.

It was just that classes had been fucking horrific that day and Steve had all but fled off of campus. Generally, gaming was a perfect distraction for well, life. But after calling in his second game ending tactical nuke that last match, things were starting to get boring, allowing for some of the days stress to seep in the cracks. 

So Steve was well on his way to calling it a day (early-morning?) and bashing his head against a wall until his thoughts slowed down, when the screen suddenly displayed his death. It wasn't the suddenness that had caught him off guard or anything, it was the Kill-Cam replay of it. 

The shot came from all the way across the map, whoever it was did it perfectly, just the faintest glimpse into the scope before pulling the trigger.

Steve grinned.

*

For the entirety of the match him and the other sniper basically played tag around the map, running across Favela's rooftops and ignoring or killing everyone else in the game. Steve was finally having fun, feeling a little bit of competitive adrenaline as they stayed fairly neck and neck for the lead.

Steve managed to win, getting the final Kill-Cam with an admittedly beautiful shot. It was always the greatest feeling of satisfaction, knowing that everyone else was watching your crowning moment of glory. 

Back in the game lobby Steve was pleased to find that they had stayed in the lobby, but felt his eyebrows slowly rise when a little microphone icon appeared next to their Gamertag. 

WINTERS0lDIER, which was a helluva Gamertag if Steve was being honest, started laughing. Whoever they were they definitely sounded male, even through the nearly unbearable horror that was gamechat mic quality, the timbre of his voice carried clearly in Steve's headset. Steve felt a prickle of interest, at the possibility for someone new to join their clan, or just someone to play with when all of his friend were either on 'Spouse Date Nights' (Natasha and Clint's excuse to spend ridiculous amounts of money on food) or working the late shift. 

That was, until the guy actually opened his mouth.

"Can't fuckin believe it, got beat by someone who chose _Capmerica_ as their fucking gamertag." It was impossible for Steve not to rise to the taunting. Although he often avoided gamechat for several reasons (#1. _Audio. **Quality**._ ) sometimes trash talk was just unavoidable.

Occasionally God was merciful, and there was blessfully no one around to see Steve's face heat up when his voice came out ridiculously rough from disuse, "Say what you want about my Gamertag, at least I can actually _hit_ things when I shoot." He retorted, rolling his eyes.

There was silence for a minute, just the insufferable background hum that came standard with every horrible session of gamechat, before the other and surprisingly only mic symbol flared back to life, "How many rounds did that one shot take? Six? Fuckin pathetic." 

Steve rolled his eyes again, "Seriously are you actually old enough to be playing this game? What the fuck kind of comeback was that? I still _won_." The response was immediate and even through the static sounded cocky,

"Yeah you did. By one point. Gonna choke in this round though." Steve was denied the dignity of a response by the loading screen coming up and displaying the map, the decision on it something Steve had totally zoned out of in favor of arguing with the other sniper.

The map turned out to be Rust.

Rust, was in fact, everyone's favorite map. No matter what they said, deep down, everyone loved Rust. By far the tiniest map in existence, Rust was where friends were meant to be made or lost. You took your enemies there to destroy them in the name of glory, and your friends there to do one of two things: Napalm said friendship into oblivion on accident, or literally do nothing but laugh so hard you cried because, _what the fuck, how do you even get outside the map?_ (An event that had cemented Steve and Sam's friendship.)

Rust was also fucking horrible for Free-For-All, and everyone knew it.

Back when Steve was just learning to quickscope, and was a little slow on the uptake, Rust had been his worst nightmare. Close spawns, people with shotguns and _assault rifles_ gunning him down before he could even raise his beloved bolt-action Intervention. His mentor, Wade, had just cackled madly the entire time Steve had cursed up a storm loud enough to wake the neighbors, cooing "In time young Padawan, you will understand," when Steve had asked why the fuck you would snipe in a map where you literally spawned right next to everyone else.

The reason? If you were fast enough, none of the people with assault rifles and shot guns could touch you. 

The match quickly devolved into chaos, and Steve couldn't track down Wintersoldier when there were so many other people in close proximity trying to ruin his killstreak. So when Steve's character met death around the fifteen kill mark, he wasn't all that surprised.

Though Steve was groping to turn his mic back on faster than the Kill-Cam could finish.

"Are you fucking _camping_?" Steve all but shouted into the mic, and barely managed to keep it to a more reasonable level for around fiveish in the morning on a Saturday. It was _sacrilege_ , what Wintersoldier was doing. Hiding away with his sniper-rifle somewhere.

The answer had a draw to it that was so familiar that Steve felt even more ashamed. Possibly one of Brooklyn's own, _**camping**_. 

"Don't get your panties in a twist. It _is_ a sniper-rifle." The guy was just pushing his buttons and Steve knew it. But again, **sacrilege**.

"You're being a pussy and you know it. Fuckin camper." Steve swore. There were few things Steve hated more than campers. Flashbangs being the only thing worse (because fucking _really_ ).

It became Steve's singular mission in life to track down Wintersoldier, and put a bullet between his eyes. In fact, Steve was so focused that he hadn't even really noticed they were still arguing, all of it little more than playground taunts and vicious name calling.

When Steve finally found him, he almost stopped dead in his tracks (a sure way to die immediately) to gape.

"How the fuck did you even get up there?" Steve spluttered, because _what_. Wintersoldier had scaled a structure on the side of the map and somehow managed to wedge himself into a poorly rendered corner, making him nearly impossible to spot or hit.

Steve didn't give him the chance to reply, knowing the smug bastard was going to brag about it, and took the shot.

The final Kill-Cam was confusing, considering that Wintersoldier had basically glitched himself out of the map, but Steve dropping like a sack of potatoes showed up just _fine_.

Steve wasn't a sore loser. He really, hand-to-God, wasn't. Never really got too into it, but there was something about Wintersoldier's cocky attitude that dug under his skin and pissed him the fuck off.

It was three seconds out of the loading screen back into the game lobby when Wintersoldier opened his fucking mouth.

"What did I say huh? Choked." The guy sounded so fucking smug Steve could practically imagine the expression on his face.

"You only won because you camped like a **Little. Fucking. Bitch.** " It wasn't the worst thing they'd said to each other, but it was like throwing a match into gasoline.

"I didn't want to end the match immediately. You couldn't handle me one-on-one and you fucking know it, dick." The sneer in his voice made Steve want to throttle him. And if that wasn't a challenge Steve didn't know what was.

*

Steve hadn't really planned on staying up until seven in the morning, but it happened. They tied their first one on one match, which was filled with tense silences as they attempted to out-maneuver one another, only broken by the occasional crows of triumph when one of them managed to gain the lead. The insults hadn't even faltered, and Steve found himself gritting his teeth in frustration. He couldn't help a sense of grudging respect, even if the guy was occasionally a fucking camper, he knew what he was doing.

The second match was a complete and utter knock down drag out, and they were practically hissing at each other through it. Steve was even the bigger person and only gloated until midway through their next match when he won.

It was by the grace of a hit-marker, which was utter bullshit on every single level if you asked Steve, that Wintersoldier managed to win the last matched they played. 

After the final score came up, Steve's 29 to Wintersoldier's 30 kills, Steve glowered at the TV from where he was half smushed into the couch, exhaustion finally slamming into him.

"Good game, man." Steve managed to get out, even though he for some reason wanted to meticulously point out all the ways it was bullshit just to get the other guys voice to stop sounding so fucking smug.

There was a laugh that literally screamed mischief, and then, nothing. 

Steve glared at the empty game lobby for a solid thirty seconds before turning off his console, and passing out.


	2. Try Hards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Steve Rogers: Over-whelmed college student and massive nerd.
> 
> In which Steve goes to work on his day off, avoids well meaning friends, and violently ignores feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually updated when I told myself I was going to, miracles do happen! I've never really done a multi-chapter fic before, and generally just post them finished but, this one is apparently the exception.  
> Just, thank each and every one of you so much. I'm very new to sharing my work with others, (I have the folder on my computer containing 30+ unpublished fics to prove it) and everyone is so nice and helpful.
> 
> Anyway. Here's some nerds being nerds. If you've got any questions or I messed up terribly (which is very likely) please, ask or tell me.

It was around twelve in the afternoon when Steve groaned and accidentally rolled off the couch, fumbling for his cell phone.

"Oh good you're not dead, Nat said you left the bakery with a literal storm cloud over your head yesterday." Sam said in a bright, happy voice. The background chatter making it obvious Sam was on break. Steve rolled his eyes, knowing that Natasha was just looking out for him by tattling to Sam, but it was getting ridiculous.

"Alive, yes. Awake? No. So is that the only reason you called because I'd like to sleep while I can, thank you." Steve pressed his face into the carpet of his tiny apartment, trying to block out some of the sunlight. 

"Yeesh, what happened to you?" Sam asked, and Steve could literally envision the shit-eating grin on his face. All of his friends were assholes.

In response, Steve just groaned.

"Come down to the bakery man, I can hook you up." Sam didn't even need to use his cajoling tone, because _**fuck yeah **, fresh pastries****_.

*

Pushing open The Bakery's doors released a wash of warm and delicious smells into the chilly October air, and Steve took a deep and indulgent breath. The Bakery was without a doubt, Steve's home away from home; and he loved every minute he was there. Even on the days he trudged home covered in flour from head to toe. Especially because although literally called The Bakery, it offered a myriad of different products, _even ice cream_. 

Steve loved his job. And the food.

"Steeeeeeveee!" A voice called from the back, and Steve rolled his eyes, resting his arms on the counter while attempting to hide his grin.

Clint Barton burst through the western style doors that separated the serving area from the kitchen, holding a tray of steaming pastries. Clint co-owned The Bakery with Natasha, and it actually ended up being the greatest thing in the world, working for two of his best friends. (Who understood intimately the hell that was working and going through college because you were broke as shit.)

Clint deftly slotted the pastries into their section of the display case before depositing one in front of Steve on one of their teal colored napkins. 

"Thanks Clint." Steve grinned, taking a bite and practically moaning at the way the flaky crust crumbled in his mouth. Clint was actively watching him with his chin on his palm, grinning. Which, honestly wasn't that weird, Clint liked watching people's reactions to the things he made. Although Steve _knew_ that look and slowly and regretfully put down his pastry, narrowing his eyes.

"So me and Nat were talking last night...." Clint started and Steve grimaced, 

"I thought we agreed you would never overshare about you and Natasha's sex life ever again." While it did pull a grin from his boss, Clint's face got serious a moment later, and Steve felt his mood plummet. 

"She's worried about you, Steve. A stranger could tell that you aren't _thrilled_ at the prospect of becoming an accountant. " Clint frowned, folding the napkin in his hand restlessly, "Look, we're not trying to pry or anything. We both just realize you look...happy here. Like you actually want to be here without thinking about flinging yourself out the window every two minutes. We just want you to know that there is always a place here for you, and Nat would train you fully in a second flat." Clint finished his little speech with his hands spread out in front of himself earnestly, covered in flour and all, and Steve felt himself deflate like a balloon; wondering where Sam was hiding, having obviously left him to this fate on purpose.

He attempted a weak smile and probably failed miserably, "Thank you guys...I'll keep it in mind." 

The fact that Clint's smile was tinged with disappointment haunted Steve for the rest of the day.

*  
At some point, hate-matches with Wintersoldier became a thing. They both apparently had a penchant for being online at ridiculous times in the day when their friends had either abandoned them or had other commitments. Or you know, lives.

Conversation slowly began to trickle in around the constant stream of insults they hurled at each other.

Steve belatedly started to realize he occasionally looked forward to their hate-matches.

Even if the guy was still an asshole.

*  
Three weeks in Steve still wouldn't label it as an honest friendship. 

Until the day where they exchanged names that is.

Every single time Steve saw that T_StaRk had joined the game, he died a little on the inside. 

Tony was one of his best friends, although he was under no circumstances allowed in SHD. 

Steve and Tony got along well enough in person, and Steve was glad he met the manic engineer. 

But online, Steve couldn't stand Tony. At all, for a _very_ specific reason.

It was during one of his and Wintersoldier's one-on-one hate-matches (which Steve realized were going a long way to alleviate the stress of college) when Steve forgot to make the match private, and of course, Tony invited himself to Steve's game.

"Who the fuck is this?" Was the first thing Wintersoldier said, annoyance impossible to overlook. 

Steve sighed, knowing that he wouldn't get the chance to say anything.

"Who am I? Oh Cap. I'm _wounded_. Don't you tell all your stuck up Bolt-Action friends about me? I talk about you all the time." Steve couldn't see him, but knew that Tony had a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

Steve just sighed harder.

"No Stark, I don't tell every single person I meet about my insane friend. Especially since you are a _**blight ******_on the sniping community." Steve would never ever stop trying to show Tony the error of his ways. The error of his disgusting automatic .50 Caliber-sniper ways.

It was one of the rare times when Steve and Wintersoldier had managed to stop insulting each other long enough to get into actual party chat. And it turned out that Wintersoldier hated game chat just as strongly as Steve did, it was one of the few things they managed not to start an argument over. 

Therefore, Wintersoldier's snort of derision came in crystal clear.

"Come on man. Just play along, you did in fact invite yourself to my game." Steve tried at first. An attempt at civility that was doomed to fail from the start. So Steve sent Wintersoldier a message, asking if he'd like to gang up on Tony and show him just how much better the Bolt-Action sniper rifles were.

Wintersoldier's reply was a dark laugh that had a mean edge to it.

Steve ignored the goosebumps on his arms.

Steve had set the map selection to 'Random' around two hours ago, and so when Highrise showed up Steve actually sat up straight to play.

Highrise was a decent sized map, not so big that they would lose one another and spend ten minutes trying to find each other like in Estate. It was actually an okay map for sniping to be honest. Unfortunately it also had a ton of nooks and crannies to hide if you knew where they were.

Perfect for one Tony Stark, who was a self proclaimed camper and had zero qualms about doing it.

The match started with an undignified shout as within the first twenty seconds Tony's gamertag appeared at the bottom of the screen, informing Steve that Wintersoldier had offed him. 

Steve grinned and jogged around a corner, raising his gun and then spluttering in indignation when he got a throwing knife to the face. 

"Are you fucking kidding me right now, Stark?" Steve hissed, glaring at the screen. It didn't help that Wintersoldier chuckled, the traitor.

Re-spawning, Steve sprinted back to where he had died, having seen where Tony was hiding in the Kill-Cam, only to witness Tony running backwards from said hiding spot, firing wildly. 

It didn't save him.

Wintersoldier hunted down Tony with extreme prejudice and Tony's increasing frustration had Steve trying to suppress his laughter, even moving his mic away from his face when Wintersoldier popped out from nowhere and it apparently surprised Tony enough he fell off the map and to his death.

Tony did get in a few lucky kills, generally when Steve and Bucky were still clearing the chambers of their snipers, little automatic pussy that he was.

Steve was actually enjoying himself in a match with _Tony Stark_ for once, and it was a miracle, therefore Tony had to open his big obnoxious mouth and throw that pleasant buzz of happiness out the window.

"Hey Cap, can you call your boyfriend off? This is _fucking ridiculous_." Tony hissed and Steve felt the urge to murder deep in his soul.

Before he got the chance to respond, Wintersoldier cleared his throat and said, _"Is this fella bothering you, babydoll?"_ In the absolute _**worst**_ exaggerated Brooklyn drawl Steve had ever heard in his entire life.

Steve choked on air. 

Wintersoldier then quickly and efficiently annihilated the tiny kill-streak Tony had been cultivating while the engineer was distracted laughing it up, winning the match.

Tony left the lobby grumbling about try hards.

"Whatever Steve. I'm uninviting you from the wedding." Tony was sulking and Steve just snorted, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up Stark. Pepper would flay you alive and you know it. I'll see you tomorrow." Tony left the party chat and Steve noticed that it was strangely silent, the silence of a mic being turned off to be exact. It wouldn't be the first time Wintersoldier just left in the middle of a match for no reason.

Right as Steve was about to turn off his console there was a click and the mic came back on.

Just in time to hear Wintersoldier snort from laughing.

Steve felt his mouth curl up in a smile just at the sound, while a small part of him was amazed that this was even possible. That the stoic other player was capable of emotion beyond pissed or annoyed. But there it was, Wintersoldier practically choking on his laughter through the mic.

"What's so funny?" Steve asked, pausing when it just made Wintersoldier laugh harder.

_"Your name is Steve."_ Was the only thing that Wintersoldier managed to get out, and it was ridiculous. Steve rolled his eyes even though Wintersoldier couldn't see it and sighed at his unfortunate cosmic luck that Tony Stark didn't understand the meaning of a gamertag or why they existed.

"Do you want a cookie? I mean it's not like it was a mystery or anything." Steve tried, and nearly reeled back in shock when Wintersoldier practically _wheezed_ with laughter.

Then of course. 

Steve could only stare at the TV in horror.

When Wintersoldier found his lungs long enough to start singing.

_"You and me, and you and me, and your friend Steve!!"_ The other man practically crowed and Steve felt himself die a little, on the inside. That song had haunted him for _so very long_. It had been a running joke. It had practically been his theme song, and the humor had worn off the first ten times someone had played it around him. (Sharon fucking Carter for instance. After the whole "No wait Sharon, Sam wants to date YOU!! NOT ME!!! He kept bringing me with him to hang out with you because he has no balls!" Debacle.)

It made it even worse that Steve couldn't even make fun of the guys singing voice.

"Yeah yeah. I have a common first name. Hilarious." Though it had no effect and Steve was left sighing dramatically as Wintersoldier apparently laughed himself sick. Steve dealt with it for another few minutes before getting up and switching off his mic, planning on just calling it a night when there was a gasped, 

"Wait!" From Wintersoldier and Steve looked heavenward. Preparing himself. 

"Oh my god..." Wintersoldier honest-to-God _giggled_ a little before composing himself, "Sorry sorry it's an inside joke and I'm maybe a little high..." 

Steve's eyebrows were so close to his hairline it was actually a little painful. Considering his comfortable hateship (A relationship based on mutual, respectful hate) was deteriorating before his eyes. 

The guys laugh was fucking adorable.

"It's okay. I get it...a lot." Steve allowed, slowly sitting back down. There was more giggling and Steve was beginning to suspect Wintersoldier wasn't alone. The burning sensation in Steve's eyes _was_ getting worse though, and it was inching towards eight in the morning, so sleep now would be a good idea, "I'll catch you later, man." Steve said around a yawn, their customary goodbye if they managed to make it civilly through a match.

Steve's hand was on the power button when there was another startled giggle, and then, "-uck! Fine, fine! Okay?....Hey...hey Steveee? Its James...." There was brief pause as...James? Yelped, "My name is James okay? Jesus fucking Christ will you please stop badgering me now I did what you asked-" The mic suddenly cut off and Steve was left staring down at his controller.

James.

Huh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does Bucky find that so hilarious? Who is there with him? Why does Steve want to be an accountant so bad? Why does Sam abandon him to Death By Friendly Suggestion? Why does Tony Stark insist on using a Barret .50 and therefore being a huge noob? 
> 
> Only time will tell it seems!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!!! <3


	3. Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Wilson is a gift.  
> Also feelings and other inconvenient bullshit.  
> Gamers are generally a little emotionally stunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been thirty billion years and I am so sorry??  
> Anyway I literally had the epitome of a horrific week, all culminating with my laptop fucking up (and deleting all of my goddamn editing) whilst trying to post this tonight.  
> Just bear with me, this story will make some kind of sense eventually, hopefully.  
> It's stupid early in the morning but I just wanted to get this up, I sincerely hope you enjoy this longer chapter, considering I am unable to grasp the concept of a one-shot.  
> I'm sorry for any mistakes, I will do my best to fix them when it's not three in the morning.

"This motherfucker," Steve starts and Sam snorts, earning the evil eye from Steve, "This motherfucker," Steve continues huffily, "had the goddamn nerve, to join me in the middle of a match, and follow me around the map stealing nearly Every. Single. One. Of. My. Kills." 

Sam did not look as supportively pissed off as he should have, in Steve's opinion. 

Nevertheless, Steve continued his Epic Rant about James' sins over the last few days. It seemed like after having told Steve his name in a strange gesture of friendship, James had been determined to remind Steve at every turn all of the things that made Steve want to choke the life out of him.

At some point, Sam's eyes glazed over.

Which well, he really couldn't be blamed for. Steve was on a roll.

It was at this point that Natasha inserted herself into the conversation.

"Is Steve moaning over Wintersoldier again? Jesus, just fuck already and be done with it." Natasha rolled her eyes and kept wiping down the counter, slapping both Steve and Sam lightly when their arms got in her way. 

Steve was utterly offended at how no one was taking this as seriously as they should. James was an affront to his very sanity. For lots of Reasons.

Also because apparently Sam had been retelling his rants to Natasha. Not cool.

Sam's sigh was ridiculously over-dramatic, in Steve;s opinion, "This boy doesn't listen to sense or reason. Don't even try." 

Steve narrowed his eyes at Sam, "Yeah, don't try, just lure me here so _Clint_ can." 

Sam just looked at him steadily, not even having the decency to be remorseful.

"Someone will eventually talk sense about this into that thick skull of yours, Rogers." Steve hunched down on the bar stool, gritting his teeth and cursing that Natasha was close enough to hear, which she did, of course.

"Steve. Quit your bullshit. If you have a legitimate reason for wanting to be a fucking _accountant_ when you can't make it through a single day of classes without being utterly _miserable_ , then we'll lay off. " Natasha growled lowly, mindful of the elderly couple sat in a booth across The Bakery, "But for God's sake Steve, you've been wanting to get _knuckle tattoos_ for so long I might just drag you in there myself. Not only that, but you have _sleeves_. Do you know what they think of that kind of thing?" 

Steve could only sit there on the stool and work his jaw, bite back his anger because the worst part was there was nothing he could do about it, because _she was right_ and she knew it too. The idea of being stuffed inside of a cubicle and getting nasty looks every time he rolled up his sleeves made him queasy.

Before he could lash out, which was his general reaction to basically...everything, Natasha put down the cloth and set her elbows on the counter, staring at him evenly, "Look Steve. I'm just going to assume you're not so unbelievably dense that you don't realize we're just trying to help you. So how about this, tonight we'll take you out for a drink. Clint and I will pay, so shut your mouth," Steve very wisely shut his mouth, "And you can tell us what's going on. Because ever since we've known you it's like your willing to wave away all hope of happiness and joy just for this degree, and I'm really fucking sick of watching what it's doing to you. We _worry_ about your stupid ass." 

For a minute Steve attempted to stare Natasha down, but it was useless. When his shoulders finally slumped Sam put a hand on his left one, his grin practically blinding, "I don't know why you even try to argue with her, man. She could kill you with a paperclip."

Steve rolled his eyes, grabbing his backpack from where he'd thrown it by his feet, "Whatever. You're all assholes."

Sam, the fucker, laughed, "Maybe. But you're gonna let me pick you up after class so we can swing by Gamestop before we go out, right?" 

For the sake of it Steve was tempted to say no but he actually wasn't a petulant child, despite popular belief. Plus Gamestop runs were tactical affairs, as they were both poor college kids who wanted good gear. It generally amounted to a lot of aggressive couponing and careful rewards points management (They had a spreadsheet).

So it was really an effort to seem put upon, "Yeah Sam, I'll see you later. Bye Natasha! Bye Clint!" He yelled over his shoulder, and tried to hide his smile when from somewhere in the back of The Bakery, Clint yelled back. Fucking eavesdropper.

~

Steve was rocking back and forth on his Chucks while he waited for Sam outside his class. It wasn't unusual for Steve to be caught waiting, Sam always ended up staying behind to ask questions, even if he didn't plan to. It never bothered Steve though seeing as he was proud as hell of his best friend. More than happy to see him pursuing counseling, something he cared very deeply about. (Steve of course, violently ignored the tiny, bitter voice in the back of his head.)

Sam came skidding around a corner (only a few minutes late), trying to contain all of the books in his arms and very nearly failing.

"Just. Get. A. Backpack." Steve said instead of a greeting. Because honestly. Sam just rolled his eyes.

"It's a waste of money. I always end up breaking them." 

He was hopeless, Steve concluded.

The ride to Gamestop was uneventful except for Steve staring at the dashboard of Sam's car with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Sam's car was old. Old enough to be in the Smithsonian, and it made a horrifying rattling sound whenever Sam pushed the limits and went over _forty_.

("It never does this, I swear!" Sam always protested when he caught Steve glaring, which of course, would just make Steve glare harder. Fucking death car.)

Opening the doors of Gamestop was like entering nerd heaven. Their regular Gamestop was such because of the kick ass staff that worked there. The shop manager was Nick Fury, who wanted absolutely nothing to do with their clan bullshit, but always told them about sales and how to get the best deals, and their favorite cashier of all time, Maria Hill. Why did they love Maria Hill so much? Because even though she rarely ventured into the world of competitive multiplayer, preferring to stick to RPG'S, her dry sense of humor was funny as shit. 

Immediately upon entering they flocked to the 'Used' game section, because a whole bunch of new games had just come out which meant it was prime time to buy the previous installments for cheap.

Sam wandered over to the 'Accessory' department, but Steve didn't even see him do it, just knew he had from the dreamy sigh that drifted his way. Sam had been looking at a Turtle Beach headset and a new controller for a few weeks, but things had kept coming up and there hadn't been enough money. (Even though Steve had been eyeing a pair too, the next time he got enough cash together he was going to get them for Sam. Just to stop the sighing. It was getting embarrassing). 

Steve was about to pry Sam away before he ended up breaking something by drooling all over it when he heard Natasha's laugh from across the store. Steve turned, grinning, even if he was dreading the talk they were all apparently going to have, she was one of his best friends. 

Natasha was going through the 'Used' section as well, because she was an extremely smart woman. Steve was just about to open his mouth to call her over when he. Sort of. Stopped. 

The guy next to Natasha was. 

Steve wasn't gaping, and for that he was grateful, although he was staring, and he had always had a terrible case of resting bitchface. So that's probably why Tall Dark and Unfairly Broad Shouldered broke off his conversation, probably feeling the stare that Steve couldn't quite seem to rip away from him.

It was even worse when he turned around. 

Tall Dark and Unfairly Broad Shouldered was also, Mr. Unfair Jawline, Jesus Mary and Joseph. He even looked good glaring.

Sam had been raised with manners, and stuck his hand out with his big genuine smile plastered across his face when the pair walked over,

"Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you." 

"Bucky Barnes," Bucky said while shaking Sam's hand, then he raised his eyebrows and looked at Steve, a deliberate 'and you are?', clear as day. 

Natasha had a beatific smile on her face, "That, is _Steve_." Steve was a bit confused, considering that he was a fully functional adult (about 65% of the time) and could handle telling a stranger his name. At his Look Natasha just continued smiling. 

Bucky looked about to shake his hand too, when he paused and turned back to Natasha, staring at her for a minute before dropping his hand.

"Wait, _really_?" Natasha was smirking now and just shrugged, 

"What? It's not my fault you're oblivious, I mean come on, his name isn't _that_ common." 

Steve tugged on Sam's hoodie, swapping confused hand gestures and confirming that Sam didn't have any idea what was going on either. Bucky and Natasha seemed to be having a conversation that required absolutely no words, until Natasha rolled her eyes and turned to Steve.

"I told him to join your match awhile back, and this lughead never put together that whenever I talked about 'My friend Steve' I meant you."

If it was at all possible, Steve was even more confused, until Bucky shook his head, "Your gamertag's Capmerica right?" At Steve's nod he smirked and gestured down at himself, "Wintersoldier, in the flesh." 

The only thing that Steve could really think to say was, "His name isn't Bucky though?" 

That's probably the point at which it began to devolve.

Bucky rolled his eyes, "Only my friends call me Bucky. My first name is James." 

"What the fuck kind of name is _Bucky_?" It had sounded nicer in his head, but Steve was connecting dots and suddenly weeks of pent up anger against the guy apparently standing in front of him surfaced in the weirdest way. 

When Bucky snorted at him it actually sounded kind of familiar, and it infuriated Steve to no end that when Bucky answered he had to look up at him, "That from someone who;s first name is fuckin' Steve." before Steve could snark back Bucky made it a point to emphasis that he was looking _down_ at Steve, "Y'know, I figured with a mouth like that you were gonna be taller."

His height may have been a sore spot. Just a bit.

"Wow, you're an even bigger prick in real life, astonishing." Steve gushed, pressing a hand to his chest in mock surprise, "And here I was, thinkin' that maybe you weren't actually this big of an asshole."

"And you're what? A wannabe hipster?" Bucky retorted, crossing his arms, "By the way Nat, I thought you didn't employ minors? This kid barely looks sixteen."

A few minutes later they nearly get kicked out of Gamestop for literally shouting at one another. 

Nick was not at all amused.

For the record though, neither was Steve. 

Because Bucky was every bit the fucking asshole he was online most of the time, and it was just cosmically unfair. 

Because he was also really nice to look at. Damnit.

They filed out of the store away from Nick's glaring, and stood in a loose circle out in front. Natasha slapped Bucky on the arm, hard. Steve got to be smug for approximately 0.5 seconds before she reached over and cuffed him in the back of the head with a stern expression.

"I am older than both of you, but that does not make me your mother. So get your shit together." She clapped her hands, "Okay then, I have other shit to do today, see you boys later tonight." 

With that, she strode away from them, leaving Steve to not discreetly at all attempt to glare a hole through Bucky's skull. Sam put a hand on his bicep, squeezing just this side of too hard, 

"It was nice meeting you man, see you around." Sam shook his hand again, after Bucky nodded, and then basically dragged Steve back to the car. Once they closed the doors Sam turned to him with raised hands, "Okay. Seriously. What the hell Steve."

There was a headache blooming behind Steve's eyes, and it would only be a few hours until they were all gathered in their favorite bar just to grill Steve about the one thing he really didn't want to talk about. So he snapped, "What?" At his best friend, putting a hand on the bridge of his nose and pressing, as if it would stop the ache. Sam folded his arms, clearly not impressed with him.

"Uh, what was that? It's obvious you've got something against the guy but you basically almost got into a fist-fight with him." Sam said, shrugging casually.

With a groan that was entirely disproportionate to the situation Steve threw his hands in the air, "So what? You're just going to ignore the fact that he was being a total dick?"

There was only silence in the car and Steve slowly slumped down in his seat. He had known that he wasn't going to get a rise out of Sam, but he wished he could, just so Sam wouldn't look at him like _that_. Because if there was one person who effortlessly saw through his bullshit when he was like this, it was Sam.

"You done?" There wasn't any anger in Sam's voice, just an evenness that made Steve feel even worse, so he nodded. Sam uncrossed his arms with a nod, "Alright then. You wanna talk about it?" 

It felt like a weight lifted off of Steve's chest, enough for him to sit up, "No...I'm good. Just...stressed out. Look, I'm sorry..." Sam lifted a hand, stopping him short.

"Stop right there Rogers, or else you're washing my dishes tonight."

The rest of the ride back to his apartment, Steve was almost able to forget about what was waiting for him later that night.

*

The night at the bar, went better than he really expected it to. Steve had shown up late, shoulders hunched yet looking like he was ready to get punched out any second. Everyone had already been sitting down ordering drinks when he came in. 

Sam must've said something though, because they really didn't pry that much, or they must have seen how much school was beginning to weigh on his shoulders because when Natasha asked him The Question, aka, why are you trying to be an accountant if you hate it so much? She just sat back in her seat when he stirred the contents of his drink and mumbled, "It's a long story." 

After that, life went on.

Steve went to school, hated school with a fiery burning passion, and worked shifts at The Bakery that he loved with his entire being. They still went out to drink every Saturday night, and went to Gamestop. Steve finally saved up enough money to get Sam his Turtle Beaches, and would never forget how much his friend had smiled.

Steve also still played with Wintersoldier. Although lately, he was just Bucky 'God-fucking-damnit' Barnes. 

After their initial meeting they had avoided one another like the plague before finally after a particularly bad day, which included a broken pair of glasses, two ruined textbooks, and a failing grade on a test, Steve had invited him out of spite.

The match had ended in yelling, because Bucky still refused to back down when he was obviously wrong. And Steve was just a stubborn asshole, he'd admit it. 

It was the most fun Steve had had in days.

Then Natasha started inviting Bucky to Saturdays out, where they were forced to talk like civilized individuals, under pain of Death by Natasha and Puppy eyes from Clint. 

Aforementioned civility began to bleed into their gaming sessions, and while there was certainly still a lot of yelling, they started to actually _speak_.

Like when it was abysmally early in the morning, and neither of them had slept in way too long, and they just sat there and talked for...an absurd amount of time in Steve's eyes. Steve found out that he and Bucky actually liked a bunch of the same things. It led Steve to concluding he wasn't a _total_ jackass. 

Which led to Steve not quite having to force himself to be nice to Bucky in person, and eventually led to genuinely laughing at his stupid fucking jokes (because they were lame and ridiculous. Steve can't believe he was fooled by Bucky's facade, he was a total fuckin' dweeb like 99% of the time). 

There was also the time when Bucky was reminded of the song he had sung about Steve's name, and laughed just like he had the first time. Probably harder since it was discovered that Natasha had told him of the "Sam needs a wingman but it backfired and now the girl he likes thinks he's gay," debacle, and that's what he had been laughing about the first time he'd sung that _awful_ song to Steve. 

Weirdly, Steve found that even though he could generally resist, on the basis that he fucking _hated_ that song, it was impossible not to laugh with Bucky when he went to pieces over it.

Steve only realized everything was going horribly horribly awry when after playing together for a good three hours Steve was in the dark, laying on his couch with his headset on, just listening to Bucky _talk_. Steve had asked how he and Natasha met, and Bucky was explaining in soft, reverent tones the way she had rescued him back when they were in the service together, (Bucky had conveniently failed to mention that he was actually _Sergeant_ James Barnes.) Steve didn't know all that much about Natasha's past, considering he had only known her a few years, but whatever branch of the military she, and apparently Bucky had worked for, were pretty shady. 

Sitting there in the dark at an ungodly hour in the night, listening to Bucky whisper to him about how much he cared about Natasha, how important she was and still is to his life with so much unbridled affection Steve suddenly and forcefully had a revelation.

It slammed into him like being killed by a random throwing knife, a definitive moment of, 'Oh. Goddamnit.'. But he tried to focus on the words that Bucky was saying, because apparently somewhere along the line he started to try and avoid being rude to him.

Fuck.

Bucky finishes his story, and Steve can literally see in his head, the exact smile Bucky must have on his face from the soft sound of his voice.

 _Fuck_.

There's a soft cough (dry-throat a comment ailment of gamers too dedicated or distracted to get up and get something to drink) and Bucky finally breaks the silence that felt like decades, voice as rough as gravel, "Steve?"

Steve is in the midst of mild panic, mild confused panic, and can't really think of anything to say, so he just stares at the dimmed screen of his TV. Staring at the same game lobby they have been in for the past...hour? God _fucking_ damnit.

If there was one good thing Steve can say about himself, considering he's short and wiry with asthma and glasses, it's that he's decently smart. So he manages to get his shit together at least a little bit, "Uh...yeah. M'here. Sorry..." Steve trails off, glaring at a random corner of his apartment when the sound of Bucky's dorky laugh makes his chest flutter. Fuckin' _fuck_.

 

"Good. I thought I put you to sleep or somethin'."

 

Steve was officially losing his mind.

 

Absolutely falling off of the deep end. He'll turn in his controller and resign from life and everything in the morning, because for fucks sake.

He could. 

Bucky totally could put him to sleep by just talking.

The universe didn't even give him the dignity of letting it be because the guy was boring as shit.

It was stupid and ridiculous and Steve would never truly admit it but late at night when the darkness of his apartment was pressing down on him like a blanket and it felt like it was just him and Bucky in the world, listening to the other mans voice was soothing.

The late hour made them both talk in whispers for no good reason except it's just something about that time of day, and. Steve presses his face into the couch a little harder, as if he can will away the feeling bubbling up in his chest as Bucky starts talking about something interesting that had happened while he was out running.

 

Ugh.

*

The entire educational system of America could go fuck itself, as far as Steve was concerned. Every single one of his Professors had decided to give massive important tests on the same day and Steve had studied for three weeks straight for all of them and failed two of them completely, his highest grade on any of them being a goddamn C-. 

Steve had stomped out of the school trying to bite back the emotions welling inside of his chest, and managed to pretend he was okay pretty damn well.

For the rest of Friday after classes Steve had painstakingly ignored everything and anything to do with school, and instead had opted to hide under his four comforters and binge watch Netflix until he felt better. (canceling on a Gamestop run by citing his lack of money.)

It worked for the most part.

Then Saturday had rolled around and Steve still literally felt like he wanted to rip out all of his goddamn hair and cry and scream but decided it would just make his friends worry and ask questions he didn't want to answer if he didn't show up at the bar.

It was obvious that his friends knew something was up because they weren't fucking oblivious and Steve knew he was barely holding it together, just managing to smile when he was supposed and make it seem like he was listening to whatever was enthusiastically being told. 

Clint was a little tipsy and telling a rapid fire story that occasionally divulged into signing in places. Apparently a new trainee had tripped with a bag of flour and it had not only gone everywhere in the kitchen, but they had managed to trip close enough to the doors that some of it was launched from the back into the seating area. 

The group was in absolute stitches over it and if Steve didn't feel like there was acid collecting inside his throat and behind his eyes then he's sure he would be laughing too.

Then Bucky sauntered in just as the story came to a close, wearing a leather jacket with a tight grey T-Shirt underneath and skinny jeans, unfairly hot as always.

Since it had become their ritual, Bucky came in and took the seat to Steve's right, greeting Sam on Steve's left. 

Bucky nudged his shoulder against Steve's, his smile devastating, asking "What's up with you tonight?" Immediately.

Steve had to close his eyes for a second as to not utterly lose his cool, but fate was against him because a slightly drunk Clint leaned heavily on the table, "Yea...Steve, what ruffled your feathers today?" 

Clenching his jaw Steve looked into the harsh bar light resolutely, hoping that if he ignored them hard enough they'd leave him alone.

They didn't.

"It's the school bullshit, isn't it? Look Steve you gotta tell us sometime what you're in it for. Cause it sure as hell ain't for the joy of it. You don't got an accounting bone in your body." Bucky calmly said all this, still smiling, not being able to possibly fathom the nerve he was hitting. 

Steve lost his cool.

Standing suddenly, the chair he was on screeching horribly, Steve shoved Bucky out of the way and walked quickly but unsteadily out of the bar, tossing a venomous, "Maybe it's none of your _fucking business_." over his shoulder as he went. 

The tables of the bar blurred in his eyes as the tears started to build and he managed to make it through the door before the first sob forced its way through his lips.

It was dark and freezing outside, but Steve was close to hyperventilating and just steered himself toward the nearest wall, sliding down it with hot tears streaking down his face.

Steve wished he could make himself get up and walk away when the door to the bar opened not even two minutes after he had fled, but he was crying for real now, holding his arms and shaking with it, like a fucking child.

The alley he had stumbled in was to the side of the bar, and so it took a few minutes for whoever it was of walking around before they spotted him, and ran over. 

"You're going to catch your fuckin' death out here Steve!" 

Out of all the people who could've come after him, Bucky was the last person he wanted it to be.

There was nothing to do for it though, because Steve couldn't make himself stop crying. The tears he had locked away after getting his tests back, after every stressful day, poured from him and it seemed like they would never stop.

Bucky kneeled in front of him, probably ruining his jeans, and draped his coat around Steve, and then his arms. 

Although he wanted to shove him off, to tell him to fucking stop babying him, Steve was horrified to find that his hands un-clenched from the death grip they had on his sleeves to instead lock on the sides of Bucky's shirt. Steve ended up with his head pressed to the other mans chest, their knees almost touching on the dirty ground where they both kneeled. 

It took a minute for Steve to realize that Bucky was talking, "Hey there. Shh. C'mon, breathe Steve. Just take deep breaths."

Fuck. Steve realized he was hyperventilating for real and tried to calm himself down, taking gasps of air through the crying that still wouldn't stop. When Steve finally managed to get his breathing as regular as it ever was, Bucky sat back on his heels, as far as the death-grip Steve still had on him would allow anyway.

"What's going on Steve? Are you in trouble? Or..." Bucky trailed off as Steve started shaking his head, shoulders still hitching with the force of his crying,

"No. I'm not...It's just...-it's fucking school alright?" Steve managed to get out, but just talking about it made it hurt more, and Steve curled back up, not giving a damn if that meant he was curled against Bucky's chest. Before Bucky could ask what he meant Steve went on, words tinged with watery and bitter laughter, "I don't want to be a fucking accountant, okay? I never fucking have. But I promised someone I'd do something with my fucking life. And...this is my chance to not be a goddamn failure. I'm just too fucking stupid to keep up and my test scores just keep getting worse and-" The rest of what Steve was going to say was cut off by a bitten back sob.

Bucky smoothed a hand down Steve's back, and then continued doing it while Steve cried himself out. When the sobs were reduced to choked sniffles Steve looked up as Bucky took his face in both his hands,

"You're going to sit here and breathe for me for a few minutes, then we're gonna get you home, okay?" Steve opened his mouth to protest, trying to reclaim some of his dignity now that he'd just cried like a baby. Bucky just shushed him and brushed away some of the tears still on Steve's face with his thumbs, "You walked here right?" Steve nodded, "Alright then. I'm going to drive you home, you're going to get some water in you and then you're going to go bed. and you're going to _rest_." 

On the Big List of Dumb Shit Steve had ever done, leaning up a few inches to kiss Bucky was probably among the top three.

It was kind of terrible. Steve's face was wet and his mouth was dry from all the crying and it was literally negative ten degrees outside so both of their lips were cold as fuck but just when Steve thought Bucky was going to pull back and leave him in the alley or punch him, he made a soft sound before gently kissing Steve back, soft and closed mouthed. 

Bucky did end up being the one who pulled back though, repeating "Water. Rest." As he did. 

Steve accepted the hand that Bucky offered to help him up, and stumbled beside him to his car, feeling confused and the wrung out kind of numb that you get from huge bursts of emotion. When they got inside Bucky's car, Steve just pulled Bucky's coat around him tighter and slumped down in the seat, unable to meet the other man's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is a Good Friend when he stops being an asshole.  
> Steve is just stressed out and needs some hugs. And Impulse control.


	4. Flashbang

Waking up after crying was just as bad as actually doing it. It was like a hangover without any of the bliss that came from being drunk, just a shitty time followed by waking up with a headache, sensitivity to light, and a mouth as dry as sandpaper.

The desire to stay buried under his blankets and just pretend that life wasn't a thing was strong, but judging from the angle of the light it was not anywhere near morning anymore, so Steve probably had things to do.

Just as Steve had successfully extricated an arm from the blanket pile, there was a clatter from somewhere else in the apartment, and Steve stopped his sloth-like wake up in order to practically run to the kitchen.

There was someone in his apartment.

Stumbling in the kitchen brought forth a stabbing ray of sunshine directly in his eyes, and clarity.

First of all, the 'intruder' was just Sam, cursing down at some eggs he had miraculously managed to singe.

Second, _Bucky_ , who was nowhere to be found.

Steve groaned, pressing his shoulder to the entryway.

Sam turned around upon hearing him, and instead of greeting him, just looked at him with a spatula in one hand and a pan of burnt eggs in the other.

Steve eased himself into one of his dinky kitchen chairs, wincing at the look on his best friends face.

The eggs were silently placed in front of him, as was a glass of orange juice.

Orange. Juice.

The guilt began to eat at Steve immediately, but he really wasn't in the mood to talk about it, mainly because he didn't want to fuckin' cry again. So he stared at the OJ, the drink that was Sam's number 1, 'I'm worried about you' tell, and sighed, "Sam...look I'm sorry. I know I must have worried you guys just leaving like that-" Steve shut up when Sam crossed his arms over his chest.

A cold spike of fear swept over him when Sam said nothing, just looked at him steadily. As Steve watched, Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone. _Steve's phone_ , and set it on the table in front of the slightly inedible breakfast.

Steve swallowed hard, looking at Sam and thinking, _he wouldn't._

"I had too, Steve."

He would, apparently.

When Steve unlocked the screen, there were two missed calls, two voicemail's, and three text messages.

The texts were from Sam, Natasha, and then Sam again.

The calls, however.

"You called my _**Mom?!**_ " It was no secret that Steve's Mom loved Sam like a second son. (Steve had even been informed that Sam called her to talk about _Crochet_ of all things.) So it wasn't really that he had called her that worried Steve, just what he had probably told her.

Steve had not called his mother in much much too long, and it was one of the many things that had been weighing on him.

There was a Very Good Reason why Steve had been avoiding her, at least, that's what he told himself anyway.

The fact that Sam had used Steve's phone in order to call her did not bode well at all, because Steve knew his mom would immediately know that something serious was up.

Gently moving the plates in front of him to the side, Steve thunked his head on the table, _gently_ , because the table was a hand-me-down from his grandma, and it also wobbled dangerously on the side where he was sitting.

Sam didn't move from where he was by the stove, and after a little Steve looked up, taking in the way that Sam's hands were curled tightly into fists.

The protective cushion that being half-asleep threw on everything was beginning to dwindle, and Steve felt his shoulders slump, looking at the hurt/worry/fear playing across Sam's face.

"I'm not going to bring it up until you've talked to your mom, because she'll probably cover it all for me, but I just want you to know that you could've talked to me, can still talk to me." Sam sat down across from Steve as he spoke, folding his arms on the table.

He didn't ask if Steve was okay, or if he wanted to talk, and Steve diligently drank his orange juice before rubbing his eyes a little viciously, "Christ Sam, it's not like..." Steve exhaled sharply, dropping his hand to meet his friend's eyes, "It's not that I thought I couldn't talk to you, I just didn't think that...it would change anything. I guess it felt dumb to bring it up when nothing would get done about it."

Sam nodded, sitting back in the chair with an ominous creak that made both of them smile a little, "I get told it feels like that a lot. And yeah you might've been right, it might not have changed anything. But last night? Steve I was so goddamn worried about you man. You had a literal _breakdown_. Just. Even if you don't think it'll help, talk to someone about it before it gets to this point again. Please."

Sam sounded a thousand years old, and Steve hated himself a little more for it.

Sam nodded again, as if confirming something and put his palms on the table, "Alright then. I told your mom you'd call her later, so in the mean-time," Steve was still a little stuck on the whole, 'wow I'm a shitty friend thing' and didn't brace himself in time for Sam's shit eating grin when he said, " _Bucky_. Do I need to call Natasha or did he get you home alright?"

Steve flushed a little, and hoped it was dark enough in the apartment to hide it (Which it wasn't at all. The blinding ray of sunshine in his eyes would attest to that), his mind transported back to the alley, the way Bucky's warmth had seeped through his shirt where Steve had been holding on.

It wasn't really the greatest of subject changes, considering that Steve really didn't want to talk about this either, like at all. But Steve just decided to accept what little mercies life presented, "Yeah, he did. Why did you guys send him after me anyway?" The question was meant to deflect Sam, but now that Steve had the brain capacity to think about it he really was curious, because...seriously, why?

Sam frowned at him from across the table, "We didn't send him after you, he practically ran after you." Sam paused for a second, tilting his head and trying to remember, "Okay well, he tried to run after you at first, but Clint grabbed him by the arm, said something to him."

"What'd he say to him?" Steve was turning into a gossip, Christ, but the question was out of his mouth immediately.

Shrugging, Sam stood up to collect their dishes (only the unburnt middle of the eggs having been eaten) and started cleaning up, "I dunno, but whatever it was, it didn't sound good."

Steve was even more confused, "Whoa back up. What did Bucky _do_?"

There was a chuckle from the sink and Sam shook his head, "Steve. The circles under your eyes stopped being solely gaming related a long time ago. It became the overall agreement that we just...wouldn't push you too hard about the school thing."

"You guys call that not pushing?" Steve huffs, folding his arms.

Sam shrugs and Steve rolls his eyes. Assholes.

"Anyway, Bucky apparently didn't think this was a good plan, and was pretty sick of you being miserable all the time. So he decided to push it."

Steve ignored the fact that his friends were talking about him behind his back so much, and that Bucky supposedly cared about his well being to that extent.

"Yeah he's an asshole like that." So was Steve. And it was a lot easier than...feelings.

Sam stared hard at him for a moment, before raising his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh, "Right."   
He said on the exhale, "C'mon get dressed."

"Why?"

"Because," Sam said, "You know damn well a phone call isn't good enough. You need to go see your mom." His tone brooked no argument.

Steve admitted to himself that as always, Sam was right.

He needed to talk to his mom.


	5. 360

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so late???? 
> 
> (Writing Civil War fic ruined my whole life, I'm so sorry.)
> 
> Like, two more chapters. Probably. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Steve never had a childhood home, being that his mother raised him by herself. Though the small second story apartment they lived in was just as good.

The entryway made a warm and familiar sense of home worm it's way up Steve's chest, and he couldn't help but fondly remember all the places he'd played when he was younger...

...and all of the places he'd broken something or gotten punched out.

The carpet on the steps was brown, although Steve and his mom had a running theory that it hadn't originally been. It was probably a pretty solid theory, considering that the land-lord was basically the shittiest person ever.

Steve stood outside of apartment 3A and tried to settle himself, hand halfway raised. There was a nervous quivering feeling in his stomach and it quickly turned acidic. Steve's Mom had been the person he went to for everything. Any problem, anything he needed or wondered about, his mom had been there for him. And he shut her out.

It only takes one knock and the door swings open, revealing his mother standing there with her hands on her hips, smiling at him with her hair pinned up high on her head. 

The next minute her arms are around him, squeezing him tightly and Steve doesn't even hesitate in wrapping his arms around her too, something inside of him sighing in relief, some buried tension leeching away.

It feels like lifting a burden, seeing his Mom, and his chest goes tight.

When she pulls away, she ushers him inside, moving farther into the apartment. 

Despite them never being rich, the apartment is still full.

Not exactly in expensive furniture or anything, but in a different way.

The walls are covered in various art prints, a few random canvases, some of them are landscapes and some of them have inspirational sayings on them. There are plants all over on every single end table, most of which were bought at Goodwill.

Sarah Rogers' home is alive. It isn't decorated straight out of a magazine, doesn't have designer furniture, but it is beautiful. It is her life, reflected around them. 

Steve glances around for a minute, struck at how long it's been since he's been home. His mom herds him to the couch, and then disappears into the kitchen, probably to grab him some hot chocolate and something to eat. Steve is pretty sure that no one has ever entered this apartment without his Mom feeding them something.

There is a worried frown on his Mom's face when she comes back from the kitchen, and Steve accepts the hot chocolate she hands him while swallowing hard, knowing he caused the look on her face.

For a moment they sit in silence, only broken by Steve and his Mom occasionally taking drinks. Finally she sets down her cup, probably after she's satisfied he's gotten enough warm liquid in him, and folds her hands,

"Talk to me," 

It sort of feels like crumbling all over again. Although it's less raw this time, less hopeless and helpless, and Steve gives in and he does, he talks.

All of it pours out in a rushed breathless stream of words, the squeezing in his chest making it feel like the words are being wrung out of him. He tells his mother everything, everything about how he hates what he's doing. How every single day in class makes him feel more distanced, more directionless and hopeless.

Finally it slows and Steve has instinctively shrunk into the back of their couch, the words are mumbled and his throat is sore but Steve just can't do it anymore, "I'm sorry Ma, I'm sorry. I know I promised I'd do something to make you proud. I just, I don't know what to do? I'm sorry I keep fucking it up, after all that money you spent when I was sick..."

The last words shake dangerously, and Steve hasn't cried yet, but it feels like he might. Again. 

It's a lost cause when his Mom's eyes well up.

The next moment Steve is bundled into his mother's arms, they'd always been a tactile family. 

They sit there while Steve remembers how to breathe, and blinks into the harsh light resolutely,

"Hey, look at me," Steve sits back, his Mom's arms still on his shoulders, looking at her watery smile, "I have _always_ been proud of you. I will always be proud of you. And don't you dare think for a minute that you owe me anything, I spent that money so that you could do something I thought you _wanted_ to do." 

Sarah's smile is warm and she takes his hand between both of hers, "The most important thing to me is that you are _**happy**_."

For the first time in a long time, Steve can just throw himself into his Mom's arms instead of trying to shoulder everything that was going wrong, and he feels impossibly light.

*

It was decided that Steve would stay for lunch, and he was honestly thrilled about it, he hadn't had home cooking in a really long time.

Though when there were knocks at the door Steve was a little confused.

His Mom opened the door to a woman who looked about his Mom's age, with light brown hair and steel blue eyes.

"Steve, this is Winifred, she lives across the hall," Sarah said, and Steve came forward to shake her hand, surprised at the firmness of her grip.

From there Steve finds out that his mother and Winifred went to the same church, and began to have lunch together where they would talk about their shows.

Steve was comforted knowing his mom had someone there to talk to, but felt like the worst kind of asshole knowing that his mom had been alone on so many Sundays. 

Before he could dwell on it Winifred announced that her son would be by soon, "He said he had to go take care of something," she said with a roll of her eyes, "I swear he's as dramatic as his father was. Really I'm just amazed I convinced him into going to church today."

Steve rolled his eyes when his Mom none too subtly elbowed him, raising her eyebrows at him and Steve wanted to groan but was too busy smiling at how nice it was to be hanging out with his mom again. 

There was another knock at the door, and Winifred was getting up and opening the door.

When he looked up the plates in his grip clinked together dangerously as his hands twitched.

Bucky.

Not just Bucky, but Bucky dressed in his Sunday best, hugging Winifred tightly and then hugging _his_ Mom.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're still here I hope you liked it? I have literally no excuse, honestly.
> 
> More to come though!
> 
>  
> 
> **What These Losers Are Talking About:**  
>  **Kill-Cams: Replay of your death from the perspective of the person who killed you.**  
>  **Quickscoping: A person who quick scopes will use a sniper rifle, but instead of aiming down the scope like sniper rifles were made for, they exploit a feature and shoot when the cross hairs meet, resulting in a one hit kill. (Thanks Urban Dictionary)  
> **  
>  **Hitmarker: When you shoot and wound an enemy without killing them (AKA never ending rage).  
> **  
>  If you have questions of anything else, just let me know!!


End file.
